


the innocents

by veraglade



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Beach Sex, Childhood Trauma, Cunnilingus, Dark Jon Snow, Domestic, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Fucked Up, Jon Snow Comes Back Wrong, Mildly Dubious Consent, Modern AU, Past Abuse, Possessive Jon Snow, Public Blow Jobs, Resurrected Jon, Sibling Incest, The Guest AU, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 08:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15725601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veraglade/pseuds/veraglade
Summary: Inspired by the movie The Guest (2014). Sansa thought he died in action. She thought wrong.





	the innocents

_the word that would best describe this feeling_

_would be haunted_

 

 

***

 

“They said you were dead. We got the letter and flag and everything.”

Sansa’s words pop the fragile balloon of the family reunion taking place in the living room.

Jon looks up at his sister. His eyes are crinkled with affection, but there is something fixed about his stare, something alien. He’s got little Rickon in his arms, though he’s not so little anymore and certainly too old to be picked up. 

Arya holds her arms around her brother. She turns on her sister with a scowl. “Obviously, he’s alive and they were mistaken.”

Sansa folds in on herself. “They’re not in the habit of making mistakes.”

Jon moves from the center of the room to where she’s standing. He’s still carrying ten year-old Rickon over his shoulder. The boy looks happy as a clam.

“Go ahead and touch me,” he says with a rueful smile. “I’m definitely alive.”

Sansa purses her lips. Her brother has changed in many ways since she last saw him driving away in a truck to join the military base at Wintertown. His wiry frame has filled out and is rippling with well-used muscles underneath his shirt. His long, tangled curls have been replaced by a crew-cut and a fringe of locks which he has gelled into submission. He’s not clean-shaven, but he’s not sporting the same shaggy beard that used to drive her mother up the wall.

Sansa remember how shamefully relieved Catelyn was to see Jon leave for the Army.

Jon is staring back at her, sizing her up, probably noting the changes in her physique. Suddenly, Sansa feels awkward in her greasy waitress uniform and her beaten up tennis shoes. She wants to pull the clip from her hair and let it fall down her shoulders, but she knows that would be vanity and she has no business making herself pretty for him.

She wants the moment to end, so she wrestles Rickon out of his arms and sets him down with a frown. “You’re too old for babying, Rick. And your dinner is getting cold.”

Rickon shakes his head emphatically. “Forget dinner, Jon is here!”

“How about we all move into the kitchen? I’m dying for a beer,” Jon proposes in a conciliatory fashion.

Sansa demurs, holding herself away as he passes into the hallway. She’s being ridiculous.

Her half-brother is alive. _Alive_. She should hug him. Should shake his hand at the very least. Yes, they were never particularly close back in the day, but they used to get on better than she did with Arya.

Speak of the devil, her sister pinches the side of her arm. “Listen, San. You better not spoil this for us, or I’ll throw all your makeup down the toilet. What’s wrong with you anyway?”

Sansa wants to say ‘nothing’, but that’s not quite true. She can’t shake the feeling – the ominous feeling of something gone horribly wrong.

He was confirmed _dead_.

But she pushes down the feeling. She nudges Arya towards the kitchen. “Come on, we don’t want to be rude to our brother.”

 

 

“Did you have a hard time finding us?” Sansa asks as she hands him the beer. “We tend to change addresses a lot.”

The late afternoon sun bathes his profile in a golden light, but his skin remains morbidly white. Something about him almost repels light. Then again, he looks big enough to block the sun. It’s odd…he’s not actually taller or larger, but something about him is now vast and uncontainable.

He leans against the kitchen counter.

“Wasn’t a problem I couldn’t handle. I’ve had to find worse targets in BFN.”

“BFN?” Arya inquires.

“Bum Fuck Nowhere,” Jon replies with a grin. “Marine talk.”

Arya and Rickon laugh with unbridled glee.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t swear in front of them,” Sansa says tartly.

She’s still trying to maintain a semblance of old manners in this household, even if she is currently flipping burgers in a place her mother wouldn’t have stepped foot in unless gagged and bound.  

“I’m fifteen,” Arya protests, rolling her eyes, “and I’ve heard Rick say worse shit.”

“Can we just get through dinner without making a spectacle of ourselves?” Sansa demands in that reedy way that makes her think of her poor aunt on her deathbed. She shudders. Jon’s arrival has stirred up old memories.

“Your sister’s right,” Jon says, roughing up Arya’s hair. “She’s trying to make you into proper Starks.” 

Sansa prickles at his words. He sounds like he’s mocking her. Reminding her he was never _really_ a Stark. She doesn’t care what he thinks. She’s been raising her siblings on her own since she was sixteen.

She smiles at him coldly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t ask you if you wanted anything to eat.”

For some reason, Jon looks her up and down, as if she were on the menu. “Thanks, but I’m full from the road.”

Sansa doesn’t know how to politely ask him if he intends to stay here. Their ramshackle bungalow is barely spacious enough for three. She’d much rather he took a room elsewhere, but she has a feeling Arya and Rickon would put up a fight.

 “Have you heard from Bran?” Jon asks, pulling her away from her thoughts.

“Oh. He’s still camping near Asshai. The last email I got from him was…cryptic. He’s found a new spiritual guide, apparently.”

“Should we be worried?” he asks, and Sansa doesn’t like how easily he’s slipped in the “we”.

She shrugs. “This is the life he’s chosen. He would hate living here with us. He’s better off.”

Jon doesn’t break eye contact as he takes another swig of his beer. He wipes his mouth. “Why would he hate living here?”

Sansa’s smile is stretched thin. “Look around.”

She’s not ashamed of their little home, of what they have built here, but she knows it’s a far, far cry from Winterfell.

Arya turns in her chair. “Now that Jon’s back, maybe we’ll move again.”

Sansa feels a stab of panic at the thought. She has grown used to their little town outside of Sunspear, the drive to the beach on the weekends, the sticky heat which has erased the memories of snow and winter.

She’s been rootless for so many years she wants to settle down for a change.

She looks at her half-brother. Will he unwittingly force them to move away?

“So,” Sansa starts with dread in her throat. “Why don’t you tell us how you managed to get out of Hardhome alive?”

Jon blinks slowly as he downs his beer. He doesn’t answer for several moments.

Sansa presses on. “They told us you died in action. Told us they buried you there.”

Rickon perks up his ears at the mention of burials. Sansa regrets putting it so bluntly, but she needs to know what _actually_ happened.

 “I guess you can say I dug my way out,” Jon says with a careless smile. “But there’s time for storytelling later.”

 _Dug my way out._ Sansa feels a shiver run down her spine, even though the temperatures have not gone below 90.

“San. You’re gonna be late for your shift,” Arya reminds her pointing at the clock on the wall.

Sansa curses internally. She’s let the time pass unattended. And now she has to leave her siblings with…him. She’d feel better if their neighbor, Obella Sand, offered to sit with them instead.

She reaches for her phone, but Jon suddenly places his hand over her wrist. She recoils instantly. His skin feels cold as ice.

“I’ll look after them. They’re safe with me.”

 _How did he know what I was going to do?_ she wonders. Is she that easy to read?

She’s getting in her rusty Polo when she suddenly remembers what Jon said earlier.

_I’ve had to find worse targets in BFN._

She’d been distracted by the profanity, but now the word that stands out is entirely different.

 _Targets_. He’d called them targets.

 

 

She bums a cigarette from Mya. She knows it’s not good for her health, but so many things aren’t these days. These little vices keep her awake, keep her living.

Mya takes the cigarette back, inhales, and returns it to Sansa’s fingers.

“What the fuck.”

“I know. There’s not a scratch on him. He looks like he just returned from a health spa.”

“As in, he looks good?”

“ _No_ ,” Sansa rebuffs, kicking a stone with her foot.

“Okay… but are you sure it’s him? Could be a look-alike.”

Sansa nudges her in the shoulder. “I think I know my own brother, thanks.”

“Half-brother, right?”

“Arya and Rick don’t see it that way.”

Mya chews on her lower lip. “You could make some calls, find out if his story checks out.”

 _And if it doesn't, what do I do?_ she wonders. 

She stares at the fiery dunes on the horizon. The sun is a red disc, turning the whole world into a murder scene. 

“I feel bad I left them alone with him.”

“Come on, San. He’s still family. What’s the worse he can do?”

Sansa ponders the question in silence. That’s just it, she doesn’t know anything about this older Jon, the Jon who came back from the dead. What _can_ he do?

Mya crushes the cigarette under her boot and the two girls go back inside the diner.

 

 

She begins her shift when the desert is the color of scorching flesh and she ends it when it resembles the dark grey of the morgue table. The imagery is embedded in her mind. Her father’s head, removed from his body, her mother’s bloated corpse on the stainless steel table. Her brother’s limbs disfigured beyond recognition.

She stares at the indigo sand stretching all the way to the sea, the landscape indifferent to her heartache. She can smell the faint breeze underneath the fried oil and mustard. There is no moon in the sky and the stars have blinked out of existence. She is alone with this vastness which she can't fill up. 

She drives home with a dull headache. The house is dark and quiet.

Inside, it’s like stepping into a hot oven. Sansa turns the AC on, wonders why Jon didn’t do it.

There’s no light under hers and Arya’s room. Her sister usually plays videogames late into the night, but Jon must’ve compelled her to go to bed. She checks on Rickon, who is still sleeping with his stuffed wolf cradled to his chest. She wants to go and sit next to him for a while, watch him sleep.

But she notices the sleeping bag in the corner of the room. It’s zipped up and empty.

She swivels in the dark hallway. She can see the kitchen and living room from here, but they look empty. She’s almost afraid of turning on any lights.

Where’s Jon?

In answer to her question, the bathroom door slices open and a buttery square of light frames her like a deer in the headlights.

Her jaw falls open.

His figure emerges from the steam. He’s only got a towel wrapped around his hips. His hair is wet. He runs a hand over the locks and his stony sculpted torso makes her want to look away.

The heat coming from the bathroom does not touch him. He exudes a strange polar chill.

Stranger still that she didn’t hear the shower running.

“So,” she begins hoarsely, lowering her eyes. “You’re planning on staying.”

“You don’t want me here?” he asks, and she feels claustrophobic, like his naked frame is crowding her against the wall.

“It’s not that. I just need to know what your long-term plans are.”

“I just want to be with my family. Isn’t that enough?”

And he lets his fingers linger on her arm as he passes her by. “There’s still some hot water left.”

 

 

There isn’t any hot water left. She has to take a cold shower. The water pelts her with ice and it feels just like his touch.

 

 

The next morning she shuffles into the kitchen blearily to find him flipping pancakes for Rickon. He’s washed the dishes, cleared out the fridge and made coffee.

He’s drawn the blinds, and the sulfuric desert sun scorches lines into the cupboards and makes the air shimmer with heat.

Sansa squints at him.

He looks cool and rested.

She wonders if he even slept.

“Thanks,” she murmurs as he hands her a mug of coffee.

“Black, one sugar.”

Sansa blinks. “How do you know how I like it?”

Jon doesn’t answer. Instead he calls for Arya to come get her breakfast.

Her sister is styling her hair in the mirror. She’s already gotten called into the principal’s office for her “neo-punk” look but no amount of warnings will make her comply with the dress code.

To make matters worse, when she arrives at the kitchen table, Jon gives her a thumbs-up. “You look badass.”

Arya grins.

Sansa is annoyed at the complicity between all of them. She was the one supposed to make breakfast. She’s the one in charge of her siblings.

“You know what’s _not_ badass?” she tells Arya. “Getting suspended.”

“Lighten up. They’re only gonna keep me in detention, which works for me. Gendry’s always there anyway.”

“Gendry your boyfriend?” Jon asks with a smile.

Sansa shakes her head adamantly. “No, he’s _not_. Arya is too young to date and when she does, she won’t be going out with that pothead.”

“He’s not a pothead! God, you’re so lame. You don’t know anything about him or me.”

“I know he’s too old for you. Isn’t he taking twelfth grade again?”

“That’s because he works hard at his uncle’s chop shop. He fixes cars, he’s _really_ good,” Arya informs Jon, glaring at her sister.

“That’s a useful trade,” Jon nods.

“He’s building his own car. We’re gonna test it out soon, take it out for a drive –”

“Absolutely not,” Sansa interrupts hotly.

“I wasn’t talking to _you_ ,” Arya retorts.

Sansa tries to master her temper. “All the same,” she says evenly, “you’re not getting in his car.”

“One day, Gendry and I will drive away from here,” Arya continues, ignoring her sister. “You’re welcome to join us, Jon.”

“Sounds tempting, but I’ve been on the road too long,” Jon says, dipping his finger in the maple syrup and popping it in his mouth. Sansa can’t help watching him suck on his thumb.

“You’ll stay here awhile longer for me, won’t you?” he asks Arya, but stares at her sister instead.

Sansa feels herself flush. She hates his way of talking, the double meaning behind the words. The Jon of her childhood used to talk plainly. He told her exactly what he thought. She still remembers that afternoon in the godswood when she had dived into the hot spring with Jeyne and it was Jon who had pulled her out and told her she had been very stupid. He hadn’t minced his words. She remembers her dress had slipped underwater and he’d dragged her out, naked like the day she was born. The next time he had spoken to her he’d said sorry for being so harsh. But she preferred that Jon. She misses _that_ Jon.

The sound of the school bus startles her.

Jon is already walking them to the front door.

Sansa starts clearing the plates.  She notices he hasn’t eaten anything.

 

 

Her old Polo breaks down on her way to the superstore. She parks on the side of the highway. She pops the hood open, holds up her phone with the Google instructions and starts checking the carburetor. She doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing. Normally, she’d call Tobho Mott, but that’s Gendry’s uncle and the morning conversation is still fresh in her mind.

The desert sun scalds her back.  She wipes the sweat from her eyes. She feels like crying.

Eventually, she abandons the car and walks all the way to the store.

She goes into the meat section, opens one of the fridge doors and sticks her head inside.

She grew up with servants who did the shopping for them. She grew up not even knowing the price of things.

Now she knows.

 

 

Mya tells her she could ask Harry for a ride until she gets her car fixed.

“He’d be _more_ than happy to oblige.” Mya wriggles her eyebrows.

“Don’t be gross.”

“I’m not gross, you’re just a prude. You know he’s dying to take you out.”

“He’s not.” Sansa stacks up the menus and distributes them to each booth.

“Right. That’s why he comes here regularly. He just loves our exotic cuisine.”

Mya’s got a point, whether Sansa wants to acknowledge it or not. Harry Hardyng is the heir to Hardyng Steel, the only industry this town has. He could afford to dine in Sunspear. But he comes here every Friday with his old frat pack because they like the 80s jukebox, the foosball tables, and the “lovely ladies”.

Sansa has noticed that Harry specifically asks for _her_ to be his server and he always tips her the equivalent of a week’s wages. He sometimes lets his hand rest on her lower back as he slips the dollars into the pocket of her apron. One time when he’d had one too many beers he even let his hand go lower. She extricated herself in time. At least he’s classier than his entourage. His friends always make lewd jokes and stare at her breasts. They tell her to bend over when she takes the orders because they want to make sure she got it. They call her “Little Red” and ask her if she’s afraid of the Big Bad Wolf.

Sansa remembers the family sigil. The irony is not lost on her.

These boys would have scared her before Joffrey. But they look like innocents to her.

And Harry is a catch, as Mya keeps telling her. He’s handsome and rich and arrogant and he’d take her away from this place. But she resists the foolish temptation.

“I’ll catch the bus.”

There are no buses that late at night, but it turns out she doesn’t have to worry.

When she walks out of the diner that night he’s there.

Leaning against a big black motorcycle, headlights turned on. He’s got a leather jacket on, even though it’s sweltering.

“Holy shit. Who’s the hottie?” Mya asks, nudging Sansa in the elbow.

Sansa swallows the knot in her throat. “That’s Jon.”

 

 

She doesn’t ask him where he got the bike. She has a feeling she wouldn’t get much of an answer. Jon tells her to let down her hair and put the helmet on. She cards her fingers through her hair. He watches her untangle her locks. He secures the clasp under her chin. He helps her up on the seat and his fingers linger on her calves as he sets her feet in the footrest.

He tells her to hold tight as puts her arms around his waist.

Sansa closes her eyes as the engine roars to life.

She’s never experienced this kind of freakish speed. The highway is a new animal. The desert is a black abyss. Her skin cools off, becomes hardened. No longer porcelain, but something akin to ivory or steel.

He swerves dangerously, tilting the bike close to the hot asphalt. Sansa inhales the fumes.

It’s odd, but even with her hands around him, she can’t feel his heartbeat.

 

 

He slowly plants himself into the soil of their lives and disturbs its regularity.

Sansa has no idea where he goes during the day, but he’s always there to pick her up from her late-night shift and always there in the morning to make breakfast.

The Polo doesn’t come back from the shop.

When she calls Tobho Mott, he tells her Jon sold him the car for spare parts. “He said you won’t be needing it anymore with him around.”

When Sansa confronts him, he’s in the kitchen, screwing the cap on a large jar.

“For a new car,” he tells her and shows her the money he’s put inside it.

“This wasn’t your decision to make.”

“You were driving around in a ticking bomb.”

“It was still _my_ ticking bomb, not yours.”

“Don’t worry.” Jon smiles coolly. “I won’t take what’s yours again.” And it galls her, because it reminds her of childhood, of those invisible lines drawn between her and the half-brother who wasn’t given the same seat at the table.

But was that her fault? She’d only been a child.

She shares her table with him now, doesn’t she?

 

 

Rickon is sleeping over at Mya's for the weekend. Her brother, Edric, has the biggest Lego collection in town. Arya wants to sleep over at Gendry’s.

Sansa firmly rejects the idea. An argument erupts at dinner. 

“You never let me hang out with him! You’re so controlling!” Arya complains.

“I’m only looking out for you. There'll be time to sleep over when you're eighteen.”

“What do you think will happen? I won’t sleep with him, if that’s your big worry.”

Sansa drops her fork. “Arya –”

“Gendry is a gentleman. He’d never pressure me into it, unlike some of _your_ boyfriends.”

Arya is quick with her words and sometimes doesn’t mean the things she says. It shouldn’t affect Sansa after all this time, but she freezes. Because Arya only ever knew about Joffrey. She has no idea about Uncle Petyr or Ramsay Bolton. 

She doesn’t know that in order for them to leave the North, they needed safe passage. And Sansa had to pay for that safe passage.

“That’s _enough_. You won’t ever speak to your sister that way. Are we clear?”

Arya opens her mouth in shock. Jon has never addressed her this way. The cold fury in his tone brooks no argument. Sansa is perversely reminded of their father.

“Sorry, San,” Arya mutters, lowering her eyes to her plate.

Sansa sits very still. She doesn’t want to betray the turmoil inside her, but it’s hard to avoid his steady gaze.

The way he’s looking at her, it’s almost as if he knew. But he can’t possibly know. No one can. The secret is carved deep into her skin.

“How about we go to the beach tomorrow?” Jon proposes, breaking the silence. “You can bring Gendry with you.”

That seems to mollify Arya.

Sansa attempts to sound enthusiastic about the idea. Later, she locks herself in the bathroom and throws up the contents of her dinner.

 

 

Gendry is driving Arya to the beach, much to Sansa’s displeasure. By now, she’s gotten used to riding with Jon on his bike, but she can’t help noticing the curious looks she gets from the townspeople when they park near the pier.

She knows what they’re thinking. She’s never been seen with a man before.

Jon dismounts nonchalantly and takes off his T-shirt in one fluid motion, oblivious to the hungry stares.

Sansa pulls down on the hem of her shorts. She wants to tell them it’s not what they think.

Her neighbor, Obella, is selling ice cream at a nearby stand. She winks at Sansa as she passes by.

“Good for you, girl. He is one fine piece of -”

“My brother,” Sansa interjects, looking over her shoulder. Jon is grabbing beach chairs.

Obella’s eyes widen. “Okay, then I call dibs.”

Sansa laughs uneasily. “Trust me, he’s not your type.”

“Honey, he’s _everyone’s_ type.”

 

 

Arya is playing water polo with Gendry and a few of her classmates. She seems to be winning. She goes to hug Jon, but she flatly ignores her sister.

Sansa has yet to undress. She sits on the beach chair with an open book in front of her. She can hardly focus on the words. Jon is chatting up Obella at the ice cream stand.

She wishes she’d stayed home. She feels old and obsolete, even though she’s only just turned twenty-one. It feels like she’s lived longer than that. Uncle Petyr used to tell her she was such a young thing, his little “sweetling”. He used to make her promise she’d never grow up. 

Sansa shuts her eyes at the memory.

She stands up abruptly. She discards the tank top and the shorts. She can’t stand herself in the black bikini, can’t stand being exposed, so she runs to the sea. The waves will stash away the body, the evidence. 

She jumps in, parting the water with her hands. The salty spray stings her eyelids. She dives to the bottom, where the water is colder. She holds her breath until her lungs burn.

She is not suicidal, never has been. She just likes to test the limits sometimes, see how far she can go before she has to return.

When she emerges, life feels all the more precious. She gulps air hungrily. 

She turns on her back and lets her muscles relax. Her red hair spreads around her like a halo, like the many arms of a sea creature. She is safe from herself.

Arms rise up from below and circle her waist like a vise.

Sansa opens her eyes.

Jon is underneath her. He brings her up against him. He holds her to his chest. He whispers in her ear, “hold your breath for me” and he throws her over his shoulder with all his strength.

Sansa is cast into the water with a scream.

She comes up for air, spitting up water.

“You asshole!”

Jon is laughing.

And she can’t help laughing too, despite herself.

A memory resurfaces from the depths. Yes, this is like the time she and Jeyne jumped into the hot spring and he came after her. But it’s odd, now that she thinks about it. Jon came to her rescue so quick. There should have been no one else in the godswood.

He must have been watching them.

 

 

All her life, men have wanted something from Sansa. None of them ever offered their kindness for free.

Many have been awful, but at least she knew where she stood with them. She knew who they were.

She doesn’t know what kind of man Jon is. She supposes she never really knew, never took the time to find out, and now it’s too late.

She watches him as he drinks his beer. The way his neck moves as he swallows. The platter of fish and chips sits in front of him untouched.

 _He never eats_ , she realizes. _I’ve never seen him eat._

 

 

A man who doesn’t eat is perhaps a blessing. His appetite does not have to include you. He can’t devour you.

But he can do other things to compensate for his hunger.

 

 

The four of them are watching Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Rickon is obsessed with the series. Arya is texting her friends, oblivious to the movie on screen. Sansa is not paying very much attention either. She is hyper-conscious of Jon’s arm draped across the couch, closing in around her. Rickon is sprawled on the carpet, his back to them.

She could relax and lean against his chest, but something tells her to keep her distance.

Jon’s profile gives nothing away. He is completely absorbed in the movie.

Sansa grabs the popcorn bowl from the table.

“Here, have some,” she shoves it in his lap.

Jon pushes it away. “No, thanks.”

“Come on.” She grabs a handful and lifts it to his mouth.

Jon moves his head to the side. But she is determined to make him eat, to _see_ him eat.

She presses her fingers against his lips.

“Open up.”

Jon refuses to oblige her. He keeps his mouth firmly shut.

“Come on, Jon. Don’t be stubborn.”

She tugs at his lips, presses the popcorn against his teeth. She will force it down his throat if she has to.

Eventually, he caves in.

He parts his lips for a fraction and she happily shoves the popcorn inside his mouth.

His tongue flicks against her fingers. It’s rough and scratchy, like an animal’s. She suppresses a giggle.

He chews the popcorn reluctantly, looks as if he’s eating coal.

She holds her sticky hand in her lap. She should go wash it, but she doesn’t want to disturb Rickon who’s lying at her feet.

As the minutes pass, she comes to a sobering decision. Tomorrow, she’ll make the calls to find out what happened to Jon. She won’t postpone this anymore.

 

 

Sansa starts awake with a gasp. She has the presence of mind not to scream.

Arya moans a little and throws the covers off her legs, but doesn’t wake up.

The room is quiet. Nothing in it should cause alarm. There are a lot of knickknacks on the floor. Arya can’t be bothered to pick them up. They look frozen in motion. The door has been left slightly ajar. But that happens all the time because her sister sometimes wakes up to go to the bathroom.

There is no reason to think he’s been in here.

He’s asleep in the other room.

But in her dream, he was kneeling by the bed. Watching her.

Sansa rubs her bare arms. They feel cold.

When she goes back to sleep, she dreams a different dream. It’s her mother. Her mother rising from the depths of the river. The slits at her throat are black and wormy with decay. Her skin is a pale green, her eyes milky and clouded.

Catelyn points a haggard finger at her.

“Whore,” she hisses. “Whore.”

Sansa chokes back a sob.

“You’ve spread your legs for your uncle and now it’s your brother's turn, I know it.”

“No, that’s not true, no!”

“Then why do you still let him inside the house?” Catelyn asks with fury in her eyes.

“It’s not my fault he’s here,” Sansa entreats. “I can’t kick him out.”

“You can, but you _won’t_.”

“Mommy, please,” Sansa begs. "I've always been good." 

But those milky eyes dissolve and become a deep, soothing grey. Her mother’s face morphs into a wolfish snout.

And it’s Jon again, Jon caressing her forehead, Jon telling her to lie down.

“It was just a bad dream,” he whispers, fingers pressing against her temples, cooling her off by degrees.

It’s amazing – how wonderful it feels. How easily he takes away the fear. 

She wants to sit up, but he pins her shoulders against the mattress.

“It's all right. You're safe now.”

He keeps stroking her hair, whispering words against it. Her own words. _You've always been a good girl. Such a good girl._

 

 

He brings her breakfast in bed next morning. She’s come down with some kind of fever. She feels so weak that even raising herself against the pillows poses an effort. 

He rests the back of his hand on her forehead.

“I called the diner. You’re not going anywhere today.”

Sansa looks up at him gratefully, but she can’t help the recoil she feels deep in her bones.

 _Whore, whore_ , her mother’s words echo in her ears.

Her mouth opens and she feels the bile coming out, wave after wave.

She vomits the bile until there’s nothing left.

As the morning slips into afternoon, she lies in a state of semi-consciousness, a torpor which feels eerily like a hot bath. Her mother used to bathe her when she was little.

No, wait…

The water sloshes against her arms. She smells like vomit.

She’s been submerged. Sansa looks downwards. She is naked. White islands of foam conceal her indecency.

He’s undressed her and put her in the bath.

Jon leans over the edge, setting a towel under her head. His dog tags dangle in front of her eyes. She raises her fingers to touch them, but Jon grabs her wrist.

“You have to stand still for me.”

He plunges his hand underwater and gently lifts one of her legs. He takes a sponge to her skin, rubs slowly but vigorously. He cleans her up.

He moves the sponge over her thigh, dipping below the surface between her legs.

Sansa’s breath hitches in her throat.

The sponge rubs against her belly. It runs over the slope of her breasts. She can feel his fingers cupping them, lifting them gently, making sure to get the sponge into every nook of flesh. Her nipples emerge from the foam and he rubs the sponge against them until they harden to pebbles. The sensation is both soothing and nerve-wracking. She feels like rubbing her thighs together.

If she could lift her eyes and stare into his, she would see and understand so much. But she doesn’t. She blinds herself to him.  She lets him continue.

The sponge dips low against her belly again. Sansa arches her back. She hasn’t touched herself in ages, but when she did, she used to do it in the bath where it felt less dirty, less human. Another thing he seems to know about her.

He rubs the sponge against her clit and her whole body is live wire. She feels shocks of electricity running through her.

She moves her thighs against his wrist.

Jon keeps applying the sponge to her clit, but one of his fingers parts her slit and plunges inside her.

“N-No…don’t do that…” she moans when she feels the contact. She shuts her eyes against the reality of it.

“Don’t do what?” he asks hoarsely.

“I can’t…please d-don’t….not like this…ohhh…”

He rubs the sponge harder, faster, dips his finger in and out of her in the same steady rhythm.

She chokes on her denial. It feels so good, it feels so fucking good, yes, yes, yes–

She grips the tub’s edge until her knuckles turn white. “Jon…oh God…oh God...I’m gonna… I can’t…unghh....”

The pleasure builds up inside her like a tide. She’s never had an orgasm quite like this. She’s almost afraid of it. She shakes her head against it, but there’s no way she cannot submit.

“Do you want to come, Sansa?” he asks her softly and his finger curls inside her.

“N-no…please no...I…oh God…”

“You don't have to hide from me.”  

She arches into his hand and the water sloshes over the edge. “P-please Jon, don't...make me come…make me come...don't...”

The jumble of words has no meaning anymore. She wants it, needs it, needs him to finish her off.

“Tell me. Use your pretty words,” he insists.

“Unghh...shit…fuck…yes, fucking make me come….please, Jon, fuck, fuck  _yes_ –”

All the nice things her mother taught her to say serve for nothing.

She unleashes a dozen more expletives before she screams. She screams so loud it seems to make everything else in the world quiet.

Jon watches her come undone. He is not worried someone might hear. The sight and sound of her is too delectable.

He waits for the waves of pleasure to subside.

Sansa falls back against the headrest with a deep, contended sigh.

John removes his hand and the sponge from her thighs. He leans over and presses his lips against Sansa’s forehead.

“Your fever’s down,” he lets her know.

 

 

She wakes up in her room and it’s night time. Arya is sleeping in the adjacent bed.

Sansa sits up on her elbows. Her hair is still slightly damp. Her body feels weak, but has regained some of its strength. She discovers she’s terribly hungry. She could eat a horse.

She drags herself out of bed with some effort. She’s wearing her old PJs from when she was living at Winterfell. She doesn’t recall putting them on.

She pads down the hallway towards the kitchen.

The light is turned on. Jon is spreading peanut butter and jelly on bread.

Her stomach rumbles at the sight of him and the food.

“I thought you might wake up soon,” he says with a soft smile. His face is so open, so free of any kind of design that she immediately thinks – _it didn’t happen_. Yes, he gave her a bath, but that’s the extent of it, and she’s ready to pretend that’s all it was.

 Sansa smiles in return. “You’ve been a good nurse.”

Jon passes her a plate with two sandwiches. “Least I could do after you let me stay here.”

“Of course I let you stay here. You’re family.”

The sentence hovers between them like fog, obscuring other things that are better left unsaid. _You’re family and yet we do things to each other that no family should._

“I know it’s been hard for you,” Jon says after a moment. “And I know you’re too proud to ask for help. I came here to make it easier.”

“Easier?”

Jon takes a step closer. He pulls a lock of damp hair behind her ear. “You’ve always done things the hard way.”

A flash of something discordant - the sponge against her thigh. Her toes curl inside her slippers.

“Jon, when we were young –”

“We’ll talk about that later. Now, eat your sandwiches.”

He doesn’t leave until she’s finished every last crumb.


End file.
